


Distilling the Heart Notes

by rosekay



Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Dubious Consent, Episode Related, F/M, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-05
Updated: 2011-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-26 22:32:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/288616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosekay/pseuds/rosekay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nic Grimm's encounter with a Ziegevolk has unintended consequences for both her and Monroe. Fill for grimm_kink prompt: <i>Eddie gets territorial when the Ziegevolk puts Girl!Nick under his spell</i>, now cleaned up, and expanded to include the (not plot but porn-related) payoff scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distilling the Heart Notes

*

Monroe had always thought of Ziegevolk like overgrown rabbits--annoying when rutting, messy control, but ultimately sort of doofy and harmless when it came down to business. This one's business, however, was pretty, well, grim. He considered himself reasonable, and he had very reasonably avoided the company of most other creatures during his tenure on this good earth. It was the _Grimm_ was entangling him in the hunt, with some common breeder gone rogue. To her credit, Nic was an easy conversationalist. She was game to talk basketball (the lockout had been good for both of their attention spans, microbrews (they both preferred Bridgeport), and fantasy (someone else in her league got the jump on Newton and she'd had to make due with a Stafford/Flacco platoon when she even had time to check her roster--"Flaccid Flacco? That's brutal," Monroe had winced in response). So he only felt a little bit awkward when he started railing about Elvis Greenspan and the unfair amounts of tail the man had bagged in high school. What made him pause wasn't the potential boorishness of the conversation or Nic taking offense (she wouldn't), but the thick, cloying scent that had hung all tempting in the air since she'd stepped into the room.

Nic usually smelled pretty good--fragrant hair, the rich leather of her ubiquitous jacket, occasional cordite to remind him that she was the law on both sides of the game, some standard deodorant usually the only chemical thing about her, maybe a dab or two of something clean and woodsy, just a ripe touch of civet and vanilla underneath at her collarbones and wrists. Monroe figured this was when the lurking fiance was getting frustrated about her long hours; the thought made him itch under his skin. The new scent was deeper. It made the wolf worry at its metaphorical muzzle. He started to wish he hadn't packed up the cello, with its sweet wood smell, and the luxuriant swoop of its curves, warm when he made it sing against shoulder and knee, echoing in his belly. His fingers were tapping on one leg, still remembering the pulse of his attempted vibrato.

Nic frowned at him, dark brows knitting. "You ok?" She shifted, uncrossing her legs.

The scent shifted too, and Monroe almost choked, mouth thick with want. _Fuck._ He had to lower his head for a second, breaking eye contact.

The soft brush of dark hair falling against his cheek when Nic started forward automatically made him flinch back again. Deep breath. Christ, she wasn't even wearing the red lipstick she'd flashed once just to piss him off. Usual uniform--jeans, low-heeled boots that clicked when she came up the steps, the jacket, touch of conditioner at one temple that was probably from a hasty shower, barely there brush of makeup just to look professional, its scent all background. And--

"Monroe! What the hell is going on?"

She had her hands around his shoulders now, on one knee looking up into his face, eyes a clear gray in the watery light of his living.

"Uh, Nic," he started, reading his doom good and early, "are you--is it--you know..."

He looked up, desperately hoping that she would just fill in the blank. The look he got suggested she was one step away from calling the psych division in.

"--time of the month?" he managed to garble out feebly, regretting the deep breaths and drawing back so his head wouldn't be so full.

Nic recoiled immediately. He could smell and see the flush that worked its way up her neck to make her cheeks glow.

"Jesus Christ," she bit out. "Monroe--I--"

She stepped back at least, starting to turn, before pivoting back around. "You look like you're disabled or something! No way you're like this every time a woman's on the rag." She looked at him like she was trying to ferret out whatever joke he thought he was playing. Right, he could only wish it were that simple

"They're not _Grimms_ , Nicole. You've got--" he had to bite his lip to keep it in. A scent ten times stronger, so rich he could taste it, and not just the pedantic sweetness of blood spilt, but the musk, the undefinable extra layer that made some part of him want to howl at a bright crescent in the sky, press fingers into soft skin, rut damp and urgent in furs. He could feel his eyes burning, and from Nic's wide eyes, they were starting to turn a little too.

The heat was still in her cheeks, but she'd recovered herself a little at least.

"Ok, ok, thanks for the help. I'll call you with an update, ok?"

Monroe didn't need an _update_. He was not her _Lassie_. He had a couple other redefinitions to snap at her, but he didn't trust himself to say anything, or even stand up without announcing a few other side effects. He wondered if the double whammy of being a cop and a Grimm would make the sexual harassment charges both insufferably bureaucratic and terrifyingly medieval. Marie Kessler would have strung him up by his nuts for daring to sniff at her niece like that, all dark-haired and soft with her eyes freshly opened and ripe for--

Jesus. He shook his head a little, eyes clearing enough to see the door rattle a little as it slammed shut.

"Fuck," said Monroe to his empty room.

Letting the phone ring a few times before picking up was harder than it should have been. It was logically not possible to have smelled or felt something through the line since Nic was probably halfway across town, but that didn't stop every muscle tightening from the memory of that rich scent, what it implied, what it made the wolf want. Monroe tried for belligerence.

"How'd you get my new number?"

He could hear Nic roll her eyes. Her voice was husky with impatience, which made him wish he could cross his legs without crashing the car. The warm tone of it echoed and hung in his ear.

"I'm a cop, remember?" If she was feeling any lingering awkwardness over their last meeting, there was no trace of it her voice now. Good girl--she'd need it in her business. "Anyway, I need your help with this thing. I've got the guy at a bar."

This thing being the Bluebeard running amok with all the rainy girls of Portland.

"You're _talking_ with him?"

For some reason, the thought of the goat being anywhere near Nic made him clench his hands on the wheel. He had to breathe deep to keep the car steady. She was tough and learning fast, but that didn't make her immune to a strong suggestion. If the goat thought that he could move in on Monroe's--

Whoa, he had to spin the wheel to keep from veering, his blood up, eyes burning again. The mirror showed him red.

"He knows I'm a cop, Monroe. Already talked to him at his house." She was eager to cut off any protest to give him the brisk run down of the situation and the address of the bar, so he cut her off in turn.

"The Blue Moon? Do I _know_ it? I'm there."

If Marie Kessler herself had come back from the grave later to interrogate him on the matter, Monroe would still have insisted, no ma'am, no way did he speed to get there.

*

Nic was wearing perfume, a lot more than the occasional dab Monroe caught now and then, clean and crisp with base notes that were subtle to humans but would have been sweet and overpowering in almost any other circumstance. It occurred to him that she was trying to cover up the bleeding scent. The effort was like flicking water droplets like a house fire--he could still smell and practically taste enough that his head was thick immediately, the wolf just right under the surface--but Monroe figured he owed it to her to produce the necessary fiction of ignorance. He tried to focus elsewhere. She had a dab of Vaseline on her lips, sharp and oily, and the leathery puff of her holster was evident--good, she was ready for a fight. It was subtly different from the more buttery smell of her jacket.

She had dark circles under her eyes that were the price of pale skin--Monroe could sympathize, but her hair was loose and fragrant, softly curling around her tense shoulders. He wanted to grab a handful of the strands all richly dark and full of her scent, and just mash it up against--whoa there, take the lotion back out of the basket, Monroe.

He shook his head to clear, vaguely processing that Nic was describing the goat to him.

"I'll know a Ziegevolk when I smell it, Nic."

She flicked a sharp glance at him. "This guy's a serial rapist, Monroe. I need to know everything he's doing in there, everyone he talks to, ok?" She looked down at her hands briefly. Monroe could smell the dirt beneath her nails--Nic didn't seem like the mani-pedi type. "One more thing--toads?"

A herder? This was a nastier operator than he'd expected. A _collector_ , one who'd take his time and enjoy it.

"And _you're_ not talking to him, right?" he couldn't help insisting.

That got him one corner of her mouth lifting, which was, Jesus, soft and red and inviting. "That's why I'm sending _you_ in, isn't it?"

"Grimm work," Monroe confirmed, satisfied. A little thrill ran down his back. Who'd have thought? If some of his more bloodthirsty relatives could see it, they'd have his skin, and Nic's, though if they could smell her now, maybe they'd want to--

 _Focus, Monroe._

Once he'd collected Nic's money and weathered her grimace, he adjusted the Bluetooth to head in. The warmth of her voice in her ear was surprisingly steady, a comfortable burn in his belly. The distance helped keep his reaction at bay. He needed it when the doors swung open and the toad scent hit him like a truck, all burnt-sugar slick emanating from the back of the bar. The new girl he'd snagged was pleasantly short-haired and gamine, all tricked out for a night on the town, pink lipstick sweetly chemical and a hint of sweat beneath the lemony lotion that was strongest around her hands and legs. The goat was immediately identifiable, a little more imposing than Elvis Greenspan had been, but still infuriatingly average looking. Pink Lipstick wouldn't have given him a second look if she hadn't been whacked with the ultimate roofie. Neither one of them even noticed when he sidled up with his beer.

The goat was busy describing his den, voice beautifully modulated and working like a charm, judging by the girl's wide eyes and adoring face. The man did know his gardens and how to make them sound inviting. Monroe stared at the way he curved his hands in the air like he was cradling a bloom, and thought he might like a nice stroll in a quiet garden, a little moonlight, something sweet in the breeze. Maybe he'd--

 _Twice_ , in one night, losing control like he was a pup just come into his claws. Christ, he'd been on the verge of buying the goat a _drink_ , with his _own money_. Unacceptable. He downed some more ale in an attempt to wash away the burnt-sugar scent that made his skin itch. It didn't work.

*

"What the hell, Monroe?" Nic clutched her phone, knuckles white and clear eyes catching the lamplight.

He put his hands up defensively. " _I_ was about to home with him, Nic. No go."

She made a frustrated noise that really should not have gone straight to his dick. The particular tenor of it lit a live wire under his skin, and the wolf stirred in a ripple. Mercifully, she either didn't notice or didn't care to show it.

"He's still got the girl with him?"

Monroe nodded. "Hooked."

Nic turned away abruptly, so only a sliver of her face was visible in the dim light from the street.

He couldn't help the whine that slipped into his voice. "What, now you're _mad_?"

"He's coming out," Nic hissed, still looking the other way. She shrugged anxiously, the leather of her jacket moving fluidly over her shoulders. Monroe had to close his eyes at the way her tension was feeding the strength of what she gave off. Her time was clearly on the wane, but the richness of it was no less tempting, just beginning to be dominated by Nic's natural scent, sharp and a little dangerous.

When he opened them again, Nic was already halfway down the block on the Bluebeard's tale.

"Hey!" he barked.

She half-turned distractedly and said, "Oh, sorry, Monroe, good job tonight. You can go home, ok?"

Go home? And leave Nic alone in a randy herder's home? His head was swimming, torn between the Grimm's familiar tug, and the syrupy toad perfume that trailed. The thought of that little bastard touching Nic, feeding his scent into hers, making her eyes go wide and delicate like Pink Lipstick at the bar, trying to _breed_ her. It was getting hard to breathe, and Monroe wasn't sure if it was the conflict of scents or the slowly burning rage that made the wolf arch close to the surface of his skin.

*

Monroe managed to make it through about two minutes of rationalizing that his life was totally normal, it was not being _devoured_ by a _Grimm_ of all things and he was just going to stroll back into the bar and buy Pink Lips a good beer and get her off the topic of gardens, before he was loping back towards his car, dialing Nic on the headset.

She picked up after the first ring, voice cast low and in a hiss. Her irritation was evident--it only churned up his agitation. "Monroe, what the hell, man? You're done for the night. I got him, ok? He's headed back to the house."

The click cut off his response with an air of finality. It was another couple minutes of dead air and dial tone before he looked down and realized he'd dented the steering wheel with his grip. Some part, some _normal_ part, of his brain griped that it had been _months_ since he'd had to replace one--the Pilates and the diet and everything working in harmony--and now he was on the verge of something crazy again, knuckles rippling, skin itching with the hair bristling beneath it. Nic's distance should have been helping his control, but instead his anxiety was bigger than the cage he'd created.

He tried to force himself to think rationally--the goat would sense it on her too, wouldn't try to breed her when she wasn't fertile, but god, just the brief image was enough to get the wolf snarling right to the surface. The familiar smells of the car had become distracting, cutting swathes through the trail of the toad scent. Nic had said she'd followed the goat on foot from his den. If he let the wolf out, he could get there faster, focus on the Bluebeard's tracks. He just wasn't sure if he could put it back in.

*

The scent of fear curled sour in his blood, thicker and more overpowering the closer he got. He remembered the goat's charming description of his garden, and felt his eyes pulse red, his jaw lengthening so he could feel the heady strength of fang and bone, the sense of flight when the wolf rose to the surface. He only had the slight warning of female terror and a citrus cover before Pink Lips almost bowled him over in her rush to get clear of the house. Her eyes were clear--he could smell the toad scent dissipating around her, but she screamed long and hard when she saw his face, throat moving even as she scrabbled backwards. She wore no red, but his mouth watered instinctively at the soft, fleshy smell of her. It was only the overlay of the goat and the _Grimm_ , sweet and ripe and straight down his spine, that saved her.

The door was still ajar when he charged in, taking most of the wood stairs in a couple bounds. He paused to pick up the trail again, fur bristling. He could smell where she had been, sweat and fear and, finally, adoration, the warm spot on the carpet where her body had rested before the goat's scent mingled with it. The Bluebeard spewing its scent on _her_ , soft and dangerous all at once, what was his by _right_. Monroe could _smell_ where the thing had lost control as well, drunk on the Grimm and the power that swam around her. He could pinpoint the women below the floorboards, already weak, some with the goat's seed, could even get a whiff of the Grimm's partner, ink and warm metal and just a touch of her scent. The goat was on the run, wasn't even thinking about the girls he'd already plucked--he was fleeing with the prize. He roared, all red beneath his fur, and breathed in the faint tinge of fear when he dropped his jaw. Good--it should know what was coming for it.

The goat was fast, a predator, but not in the way that the wolf was. Its instinct wanted a seraglio, thick with obedience and adoration, a place to breed, to collect. Its hunt was the soft hunt of a curved hand and a sweet breath to draw soft prey in. The goat didn't know the blood hunger, the iron in a long run. It didn't _deserve_ the Grimm, who was dangerous, capable of drawing blood herself. He caught up with them quick enough as he tore to the back of the house. The goat flattened his ears instinctively when he snarled into his space, eyes dropping immediately to the Grimm, who was lolling unsteadily across the goat's shoulder, shoulders all warm ivory in the dim light--she'd lost her jacket, or it had been lost for her. He could tell the scent memory of how the leather had been dragged down the smooth skin of her arms, how the goat had cupped an elbow, a breast. The wolf roared at the thought of that, violated in some deep part of its pride that still vicious for the kill.

Her fragrance was even stronger with her dark hair tumbled and eyes blown wide. A bruise that bloomed like an overripe fruit across the rise of one cheekbone. He'd known that she was far from ordinary, strong enough to force the Bluebeard into making an effort, but this, this was an affront to _him_ , a challenge. The air was drenched with the goat's efforts to subdue her, thick and cloying. It made him throw a snarl at the thing, which was not quite cowering, but certainly wary, even with its smell all over the wolf's own territory. It was soft. Prey.

"This isn't your fight, Blutbad." The Ziegevolk was trying to sound reasonable, its fingers curving through the air again, carving charm with each stroke. Some sliver of him, that had enjoyed his buttery ale and fiddling with clocks, wanted to whine in submission, take a stroll in that garden. But the goat had its other hand looped around the Grimm's upper arm, fingers both smooth and hairy in his eyes, digging prints into the warm flesh. Whenever he shifted, she moved languidly with him, as if the wolf weren't there at all, gazing drowsily up into is craggy face. She was redolent with the rich note of her blood, full of desire and the sharp hint of kills past.

"It's _my_ claim," he let an inhuman growl rumble in his voice. His head was filled with her scent, familiar and thrilling, netted in by what the goat had wrapped around her. It was ringed about her open throat, long and exposed without the protection of the jacket. He needed the warmth for his own, undisturbed by the toad-eater and his filthy weakness.

"She's mine." The thing sounded a little less certain now. Good. "She'll have me in her soon enough to finish it."

The comfort of the red heat that had him bristling became something cold and focused. It _dared_. It would have oily flesh, he knew, all sinew and glands to draw the love out of weaker things, but his blood was up, unafraid to bite. The goat, cowardly, sensed his movement as soon as he tensed for the snap. It practically threw the Grimm between them, a shield that made him burn under skin and fur and fang, but the wolf was no pup to be distracted by the first diversion. It knew where its teeth wanted a home, moving quickly. The toad-eater hesitated as it bounded towards the door, dark eyes drawn back to the Grimm sprawled on the ground, her hair a shadowy halo about her head, skin glowing in the dim light, the curving red of lip and cheek that drew the wolf along with the goat. That was its second mistake. Its first mistake was the gall to take her in the first place. The wolf could forgive clumsy prey that might get lucky in its flight, but it wanted nothing less than blood for the theft of what it considered its own.

The bite was quick enough that the Ziegevolk hardly looked surprised, one leg caught in his claws, and its slick, oily blood already flooding hot into the wolf's mouth. He knew that he had the heartiness of the life vein, no bitter liver's trickle, but the strong pulse of a traitorous throat that he had brought down within his rights. He worried at the hated flesh until the sickly sweet toad scent began to thin in the air along with the weakened flesh, now clinging in strips to the wolf's teeth. The death shudder, tight and all agony, sent a frisson of pleasure along his spine. He would have continued to nuzzle, would have feasted more, but a voice was cutting through the carmine haze like a blade.

"Monroe, oh my God, Monroe, did you--"

He snarled instinctively, the animal cooling only a little because of the familiar scent, the soft touch on its shoulder. Fur rippled towards skin and then back. The Grimm, his claim, fought for and won, the cooling remains of the interloper behind him now. She smelled like the thrill of a silent run through deep woods, like rut, like rich meat and smoke. He pushed her warmth to the ground, surging over her, already bloody teeth nipping lightly at where her pulse thundered under thin skin, fear and daring all in one. He felt drunk with it, wanted to worry at where it fluttered the strongest, nudge at the richness between her legs, make her whine.

" _Monroe_ , I need you to focus. Monroe."

The hand at his jaw made him pause, holding him firm like a dog. He snapped a little, not unhappy with her strength, but mis-liking the way she directed him. The fingers just tightened though, subtle edge of fear in the way they pressed in, and he let the scent clear a little from his head as he looked into resolute eyes, no longer blown dark from the toad-eater's touch, but a clear and lucid gray even in the bad light. Gray eyes, cool enough to soothe the red need that surged in his mouth, in his hips. The look of a Grimm focused in battle, a Grimm who was--

Oh God, Nic. Nic, who never loosened her death grip, not until the heat haze subsided, fur softening to the common straggly hair that framed his face above his fragile human bones. They hurt, but when she looked into his eyes, cool and soft now, no roll of red to throw him, she unbelievably smiled. Monroe gaped at her, dark hair tangled around straight, pale shoulders, the serious brow relaxed despite the shiner that was going to be a nasty reminder in the morning. Faint red marks that would darken too were already visible on one arm, more at her throat--and those were no goat looking for an adoring mare to be bred--those, uneven and ragged, were all wolf. Her shirt was mussed and rent a little, tugged out of place over her collarbones. And behind her--Christ, the goat wasn't even twitching anymore, just a pile of silenced flesh cooling. The _partner_ , the _cop_ partner was downstairs--there would sirens here any second, uniforms to take him in. It was a nice carpet, in this stupid bed and breakfast. They'd _never_ get the blood out. He was going to--

Nic turned his head to face her again, fingers not loosening from his jaw. Her expression had gone a little distant, absolutely resolute, the serious look that said--I'll take care of the blood, and my partner, the uniforms, the police report. It was what he thought of as the Grimm look, its hard lines and driven calm familiar from Marie Kessler's face, even sunken in illness and desperation. Nic understood the hunger, the hunt, the necessary blood spilt behind her. If she still smelled dizzying, if the scent was still tinged with fear and a little shame at how the Ziegevolk had caught her, none of that weakened the iron in her face. It was a face that would slay a guilty Blutbad without a second thought, but still, she had him caught in her fingers. She looked up at him, lashes thick.

"You good?"

As if Monroe had almost become a Bluebeard's newest chattel, had almost been taken in the worst way, then thrust into the middle of the wolf's rage-filled heat, sitting on the floor feet away from the thing's bloody remains. But he could only nod weakly.

And there was that crazy, sly grin again, breaking out across her bruised face like lightning.

"Good boy."

*

The lingering trail of those words stuck in his head for far longer than they should have. Monroe fidgeted his way through the next week, compulsively burning through his stash of Sumatran reserve that he’d meant to save, and taking twice as long as he should have on his repair jobs. Even finally conquering a tricky St. Saens solo didn’t give him much solace, the notes echoing in his head pleasantly enough, but not doing anything for the low-burning tension in his belly. He heard nothing from the police department or any Grimm-related authority, which meant, he assumed, that Nic had done what she promised and covered his tracks with the Ziegevolk. But he hadn’t heard from Nic herself either, and that worried him more than he wanted to admit. This wasn’t to say that Monroe was not experiencing a pretty immense amount of relief that Nic’s tall, competent-looking partner hadn’t showed up at his door with a Beretta and a burning need to interrogate him about the bruises on his partner’s face. He had just gotten to like the idea of Grimm work, having Nic’s scent become a familiar thing in his home. That was all.

He still jumped up like an overeager pup when he smelled her at the door though, had to force himself to walk at a normal pace to open it.

“Nic!”

Goddammit, he sounded like a holy fool.

Nic’s scent lacked the overwhelming richness that had flooded it a few weeks ago. The remnants of what had driven him crazy still made him flush unwillingly. He’d lost control like some untested alpha, given in to the instinct that had made his kind hunted and lonely, prowling maligned and dark-eyed through the pages of children’s stories. He ducked his head, suddenly not sure why he’d been looking forward to a meeting guaranteed to be a humiliation. He still had the instinct-memory of wanting nothing more than to rut into her, taste the slice of danger that ran down her spine, wrest her from the goat and fuck its scent out of her--and _not again, Monroe._

She held up a bottle like a peace offering, one corner of her mouth turned up wryly. It was a beautifully dry Pinot Grigio, he could tell without even a glance at the label, one that swirled a little at the movement, wafting its clean aroma toward Monroe.

Nic raised a brow, only her mouth, soft and unsure, betraying any tension. “You gonna let me in?”

He tried not to scramble in opening the door. The Grimm had her hair tied back, but a handful of loose curls had escaped to frame her face. She had the usual armor of the leather jacket and the unusual addition of a dress. It was plain and black and serviceable-looking, not too close-fitting, but the material looked and smelled nice, some kind of thin wool that clung where it needed to cling. His eyes were drawn to the pale length of her legs below the hem, nose clued in to the touch of anxiety behind Nic’s sure smile.

She cut two glances in either direction, eyes sweeping over his collection of knickknacks. He was suddenly self-conscious, when a month ago he’d been railing at her for knocking everything out of order with her bull in a china shop act. Nic moved smoothly to his kitchen, confidently finding where he kept his water glasses and his wine key. She stripped the foil with one smooth twist of the blade in a sweep of motion that should not have been hot, and had the cork most of the way out before he could protest the waste of perfectly good wine on his _water_ glasses. It was no less fragrant, the promise of a fine pucker no less tempting.

“You haven’t showed me your nice china yet, Monroe.” There was a laugh in her eyes, and Christ, it was like she was reading his mind. Maybe she _was_ , like some Grimm thing he hadn’t figured out yet, in which case he’d been royally screwed from the very start. He took a large swallow, forgetting even to savor it a little. The bottle had been nicely chilled, a detail he wouldn’t have chalked up to Nic.

She waited until he’d finished a glass before moving in close enough so he could smell the traces of lipstick that she’d clearly wiped off before coming, something just faintly chemical enough that it overcame the rest of her.

“Uh,” he said, stepping back, half-wondering if he had a knife in the gut coming for what had happened after the Ziegevolk bit it. Nic only looked him the eye though, and leaned up to kiss him.

Her mouth was soft and closed, and the touch was oddly chaste, just a brush of lips.

She stepped back, eyes crinkled when Monroe remained frozen in shock. “Am I reading this wrong? Wasn’t this what was going on?”

He was afraid she’d become extremely aware of how _not_ wrong she was if he didn’t step back a little.

“Your fiance?” he managed weakly.

Nic frowned at that, and Monroe immediately wanted to hit himself for even bringing it up. But the part of his blood that had run in a pack where maintaining alliances had been important was loathe to infringe on territory he hadn’t claimed. Of course, an equal part that was rumbling to the surface now was growling that the _human_ idiot who’d snagged the Grimm had no real claim at all, no sense of her capabilities.

She gestured vaguely at the yellowing marks on her throat and face. “Let’s just say he didn’t deal well with this, or--any of it. Hell, Juliette handles the bee stuff like a pro and he practically jumps down Hanks’ throat every time he has to come over for a case.” Juliette, Nic’s cool-headed veterinarian friend who had smelled of something intriguing that he couldn’t quite identify. Monroe would be lying if he said he hadn’t been a little bit curious about her smile. The vibrant red hair, while only a distant cousin of the blood that drew the wolf out, didn’t hurt either.

She looked at him coolly. “He couldn’t handle it. The Grimm stuff, me.” And Monroe was smart enough to hear the hidden, anxious part. _Can you?_

He could feel a growl building in his chest, his body loose-limbed and fierce like he got before a good run. He backed her into the kitchen cabinets with the next kiss, which was nothing like the first, hands pulling her hair out of its flimsy elastic, tongue in the warmth of her mouth. And Nic bit back, just as he knew she would, matching him for force. Christ, she hadn’t even unholstered her gun.

When he’d maneuvered them into the bedroom, she drew back for a breath, lips a roughened red that made his blood rush, and unzipped her jacket. The deliberate red slash at the center made him tighten his hands at her hips until she gasped, not unhappily.

“You--” he looked into her face, hair mussed, color high in her cheeks. It wasn’t like he’d been underestimating someone he’d been half-terrified of since the beginning, but this new level of planning was both unfairly arousing and kind of unsettling.

“I’m not planning on just going from him to you, Monroe. This is on _my_ terms.” She’d shed the jacket, and the tone in her voice made the bruises still green and vivid on her arms look like badges of Grimms who’d drawn first blood. She’d hit a particular tenor that shivered its way down his extremities, made him want to take and be taken all at once, and there was that dangerous scent that underlay her usual crispness, that made it sharper. He’d always taken it to be Marie’s influence, the unknowable risk of dancing with a Grimm, but now he recognized it as unmistakably regal. Who had Nic been tangling with to have inherited such a scent? He couldn’t bring himself to care when she walked him towards the bed until the back of his knees hit the mattress, and bore him down into its softness, letting the skirt of the dress hike up around her waist. He almost whimpered as he realized she was wearing nothing beneath it.

Nic carefully drew one arm and then the other above his head, her hands scratching down his sides to left the hem of his sweater. He moved to help, but she stopped him with a look. The wolf, traitor, happily rumbled it submission at being stripped until she had moved him to the center of the bed, hair a little thicker from how crazy her touch had made him, completely bare except for the red that strained at the back of his eyes. Nic was still in her black dress, lean arms bare and tattooed with bruises, some of them his own marks, and that damned red vee that formed the centerpiece of the thing, square in the center of his sight. He snarled at the sight of it and bucked against the warmth of her weight on his thighs, but she leaned down for a purposeful kiss and a warning bite, soft breasts crushed against him, thighs clenching. Monroe had always found the act of sliding latex over his cock distinctly unappealing, the plastic, chemical smell of the thing putting things to an awkward halt as he adjusted, but Nic managed it with the same swift efficiency she used when stripping and reassembling her rifles, and _Christ_ that should not have gotten him going again so quickly.

She was beautifully slick by the time she guided the blunt, straining tip of him into her, and he rutted up violently, hips snapping, remembering the red haze of desire when he’d thought the Ziegevolk was going to take her.

Nic laughed, thighs tightening as she met him thrust for thrust. She leaned down again to nip at his jaw, the change in angle almost too much--he could feel his fangs ready, even with his eyes closed against the mindless enticement of the red in her dress, nose filled with their sweat, Nic’s rich arousal, everything chemical on her now overwhelmed.

“Stay,” she whispered in a smile against his throat, and the wolf in him reared to the surface at the command, hardening muscles and lengthening his fingers where he gripped the softness of her waist. He couldn’t help the stuttering of his hips, desperate to have more of her, to go deeper. She made him wild, all pale and lean in the dim light of his room, dark hair a sweaty halo about her face and shoulders, sweat gleaming off of sharp collarbones. The wolf _wanted_ her in a way it hadn’t strained for even when he’d coupled with his own kind, bound by centuries-old instinct, and not just to breed or possess, but to _kneel_ , to show its throat even as it clawed its marks into her sides. It was a foreign feeling that nevertheless shot straight to his cock, where it met the heat of her insides, clenching as her breaths grew faster, the scent of salt on her face from the pace, which had to hurt a little.

“I’m afraid,” Nic rasped into the hot hair between their mouths when she leaned down again, her body a hot, beautiful weight that anchored him. She made it sound like a declaration of war instead of a nervous confession. “I need--I need my own--”

She gasped, biting down on a mouth already swollen from where he’d nuzzled and kissed and bitten. “Can I name you mine?”

The words had more weight than their surface--he could sense, could  _smell_ , the danger of it, that sharp sweet slash, like a freshly bitten apple undercut with poison, but neither he nor the wolf, rutting just beneath the surface of his skin, could bring themselves to care. Here was command, was possession that tempered by vulnerability, fear softened by an iron bloodline.

“Yes,” he gasped, dragging her closer. “ _Fuck_ , please, yes.”

*

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for the wonderful feedback over at grimm_kink! Tweaked the title a little, but same note from the original post--it references the middle or heart notes of a perfume, which are its main body, and serve to mask/gentle the base notes, usually the most intense, until they're ready to emerge. And yes, that is a hint of Renard's influence there at the end.


End file.
